


Turnip of the Hill

by EdgarAllenPoet



Category: King of the Hill
Genre: Bigotry, Breaking the Fourth Wall, Everyone is a turnip, Gen, Violence, vegetable ignorance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 06:21:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14182767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdgarAllenPoet/pseuds/EdgarAllenPoet
Summary: It’s exactly what you think it is





	Turnip of the Hill

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nye2020](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nye2020/gifts).



Somewhere within the house, in a room out of view of the front porch, there sat a young woman plucking away at a guitar in an ever familiar tune. As the notes bounced down the hall and out the open front window, a radish wearing a remarkable pair of Sharpie sunglasses leaned back against the wooden front step and regarded the yard before them. The artist who’d granted the radish his remarkable specks had never come forward, and the radish himself, being a radish, had no brain to use to remember. Regardless, one such radish- who had been the unfortunate victim of the home owners cutting board before making his escape, and was thus rather flat on top- believed that nobody ought to get away with this kind of meaningless graffiti. There was no room for those without respect for others, radish or otherwise.

“Mhm,” hummed a rather round radish who was somehow redder than the others.

“Yep,” said sunglasses, whose real name was Dale.

“Uh huh,” added flat top, who named would have had the name Hank, if radishes had names. A few feet away, which was barely any distance but quite a journey for a turnip, there sat a mostly full tank of propane. Hank wasn’t sure why- he couldn’t remember- but this pleased him greatly, as did anything to do with propane and propane accessories.

At his original home, a nice little farm quite a distance away, there’d been a propane tank the size of God himself.

Not to say that radishes have any concept of deities, Christian or otherwise. It is just that Hank isn’t familiar with the names of too many large things and thus has no proper metaphor to make for the situation. In reality, the propane tank was actually the size of a small hippopotamus, which is actually still quite large, and is very large for a radish.

The kitchen window sat above them, and through it one could see another radish who’d been grated down nearly halfway before the owner had given up. Hank thought it wasn’t proper for a radish, especially one as young as this particular radish was, to run around half naked. The author thinks it would be nice if this homeowner could finish what she started in the kitchen for once. As it was, the homeowner suffered from memory problems akin to the radishes, where they repeatedly forgot that they despised the root. They would visit the grocery store, entirely forgetful, and feel a strange sense of nostalgia when gazing upon the red vegetables. They would then buy a couple and return home, where they would begin preparing them, only to be struck violently by the memory of pure disgust.

The author only knows this from the convenience of the third person omniscient writing style, and now feels quite foolish.

Back on track. Hank may have had opinions about how proper vegetables ought to go around conducting themselves, but the truth of the matter was the only authority he had existed in grandiose delusions. He was prone to imagining things, sometimes going so far as to imagine he was a middle class republican in Texas, wherever the hell that was. Radishes have no proper sense of geography, and thus had no idea that they were currently in Arkansas, which is just a hillier, more humid version of Texas anyways.

In these daydreams, Hank made a living selling propane and propane accessories, so everything was going pretty well, in his own radishy opinion.

If radishes had opinions.

Which they don’t.

It was a good thing then that the radish named Dale didn’t have opinions, he had facts. Facts about the Chinese cabbage that had been brought home from the grocery store earlier that afternoon.

“It smells bad,” Dale said, pure fact, as if radishes smelled anything but revolting. “They’re poisoning us, you know. Putting chemicals in the air. It’s only a matter of time.”

“We should escape,” said the fat one. They all hummed in agreement, but nobody moved, since they were radishes and had quite a hard time with independent movement.

“You know they had Chinese take out three times this week,” Dale stated, spontaneously developing a concept of time and a decent long term memory. He used the word ‘they’ for pure convenience, given the anonymity of the homeowner. Hank wasn’t having it though. He was a vigilante sent to smite down liberal bullshit, and letting any go uncriticized might actually physically kill him.

“What is this ‘they’ bullshit?” He asked, voice clipped and tainted with a tone of ignorance. “Back in my day-“ that being, a week ago, since radishes only lasted so long “-there were only two genders. He and she. Now there’s some third gender going on, and I don’t like it.”

“It’s not a third gender, uncle hank,” said a pretty little carrot nearby, an unfortunately two-dimensional white trash stereotype who deserves all the love in the world for putting up with everyone else’s Texan bullshit. “It’s the lack of gender.”

“Lack of common sense,” hank grumbled. Little did he know, his son Bobby, who was a delightful little cherry tomato, was inside as they spoke, fastening a skirt out of a wrinkled receipt he’d found in the trash. A character on the reboot of Roseanne had inspired him, and he was unaware of the headache he was causing the whole family with his actions. Hank was unaware of the conflict he would soon feel over a sitcom he’d nearly forgotten. The author was unaware of how political this would all become before she wrote this thing, but hell, it’s king of the hill. That should have been warning enough.

There was no warning, though, before a wonderful piece of ginger burst onto the porch and made an announcement.

“I’ve decided to sell Avon!” Peggy told the vegetables before her. There were no questions as to how she would manage this, since she was the size of a single tube of lipstick, and could only speak and move at the author’s whim, not her own. There were no questions because the Typical Male Vegetables had heard the word Avon and immediate gone offline.

That didn’t bother Peggy, ironically named as she was. She was better than her husband in every conceivable way and deserved much better, but they loved each other (to the depths of whatever capacity of love vegetables are capable of) and that was all that mattered at the end of the day.

It was at that moment that the homeowner made her way to the front porch, to find the mail, and happened upon the vegetable gathering.

“Oh good,” she said, stopping and picking up Peggy from the ground. She had visions of tea, and ginger would perfect them. Tea was a rather healthy thing to consume, she thought, and then had visions of salad, another rather healthy thing to consume. And you know what goes great on salads?

Radishes.

She gathered her vegetables, wondering absently when she’d started storing vegetables on the porch, but didn’t spare too much concern. Sometimes it be that way.

When they entered the kitchen, she could have sworn she heard a tiny, inhuman voice shouting “Gah! Bobby!” She wondered who Bobby was and stared curiously at the cherry tomato on the counter, which was wrapped quite fashionably in a receipt.

Ah well. One of these days she would stop drinking, and then these things would stop happening to her.

She chopped through half of a radish before remembering her plight. Poor Hank was done for, fallen under the knife, not even being granted the mercy of dying the way he’d always dreamed of- grilled on hot metal, powered by propane. Propane and propane accessories. As the good Lord who watched over Texas (and consequently, Arkansas) intended.


End file.
